As due by many titles, I resign Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed, Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine: I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine; 5 Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right? 10 Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight, Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me. _John Donne._ CXXIV _SONNET._ Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5 Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow: And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 10 And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally; And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. _John Donne._ CXXV _LYCIDAS._